


Kintsugi

by DaughterOfTheWest, Ethereally



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Akechi Goro redemption arc GO, Fix-It, M/M, Major Endgame Spoilers, Post Game, Set two years after the end of P5, Slow-ish burn, Trans Male Character, Velvet Room Attendant AU, but also THE FEELS, can't stress that enough, coital star wars references, silly memes abound, spoilers everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10959675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterOfTheWest/pseuds/DaughterOfTheWest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally
Summary: Kintsugi - (Noun) To repair with gold; The art of repairing metal with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.Akira is called back to the Velvet Room two years after the end of the Phantom Thieves' journey. The last person he expects to see there is Goro Akechi-- and yet, here they both are.This is the story of two broken boys, and how they put themselves (and each other) back together again.





	Kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Every Mistake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/698830) by [strangestquiet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestquiet/pseuds/strangestquiet). 



> Thank you to our lovely beta readers: Sam and Lauren and Wes, all of whom are wonderful people! Thanks to Kira, one of our invaluable coffee gurus who told us coffee plebeians how to actually make a good cup. And thank you to StrangestQuiet, for inspiring Eth to come up with this idea in the first place.
> 
> Also extra thanks to Wes for both being one of our coffee gurus and helping spur us to actually write this fic, and also for drawing us lovely art of [Velvet Room Attendant Goro](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DAVBdOrVoAExPpR.jpg).

**Kintsugi** \- (Noun) To repair with gold; The art of repairing metal with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.

 

* * *

 

_Mementos simmers and bubbles, and its floor thumps with the pulse of a beating heart. Dark ooze floods through its tunnels and veins and swims across the train tracks, consuming the path in a deep sea of black and red. The rustling of Shadows in the distance like things that jump at you in the night–_

 

Akira's eyes flicker open, wide and panicked in the darkness of his college dorm.

 

It was a dream. Just a dream.

 

Or was it? Yaldabaoth was sealed years ago, shot in the head with a hope-forged bullet from Akira's own gun. Still, there is no mistaking the chill that runs through his veins when he sees Mementos in his nightmares, when he hasn't for years now. Akira swallows the lump in his throat.

 

Morgana is sleeping soundly next to him, undisturbed. The cat saw and heard nothing _–_ probably a good sign, but he doesn't want to discount any possibilities.

 

Akira grabs the Velvet Key hanging on a cord around his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping desperately that the nightmare meant absolutely nothing, and that he won't wake up to a familiar blue-walled, heavy-barred room.

 

* * *

 

_Akechi Goro died._

 

 _He'd drowned in the belly of a ship, killed by his own hand, at the bottom of the barrel of a pistol his doppelganger held to his head. Goro always knew he’d tear himself apart– just didn’t think it would happen while Shido still lived. Knowing that bastard outlived him, that he had been_ using _him–_

 

_No. Goro had no right to be angry at someone else for his own fatal mistakes._

 

_What was dying like? Well, so far it was nothing: literally nothing, an endless black expanse, and he himself was nothing within it._

 

_Goro had accepted his fate; which is precisely why he never expected to hear someone speak to him, or see a blue butterfly glow in the omnipresent darkness._

 

_Akechi Goro died. And then he woke up._

 

_“Welcome back to the Velvet Room.”_

 

* * *

 

Akira's Velvet Room is different. It makes sense, now that his mind is no longer a prison: the events of two years ago had emancipated him, freed him from the shackles of his heart and the chains that bound him to a false reputation. The name "Akira Kurusu" no longer elicits hushed whispers or sideways glances when he walks down the hallways at school. He is an average student, another face in the crowd, just the way he so desperately wanted when he was known as a criminal; Leblanc's weekend barista who charms customers with his sardonic humor and soft smile.

 

His Velvet Room has taken the shape of a coffee house. That should speak volumes about his heart.

 

The vicinity is structurally familiar, to say the least. Countertop on the right side, booth tables on the left. All blue, of course, with stained-glass windows that shield them from the snowstorm bellowing outside, but there is no mistaking this place as a carbon copy of Leblanc. There is a small TV in the corner playing black-and-white movies with no sound, and a refrigerator and stove tucked away by its side. He looks down to notice that he is no longer wearing his prisoner outfit, or the T-shirt and boxers he'd fallen asleep in: instead, he is wearing a dark peacoat with a long, striped scarf.

 

Lavenza is standing behind the counter, a menu with the word "Personas" propped up neatly in front, and she gives Akira a small, polite smile, which he returns with a wave. Beside her is a young man in an attendant's outfit. His hair is shoulder-length and chestnut brown, and he is busy pulling it back into a ponytail as he turns to face him, and–

 

It can't be. He is paler now, almost porcelain, and he has grown taller and leaner with age, but there is no mistaking those gentle features and how his smile is a knife behind silk.

 

"After all we've been through, I'd think you'd be happier to see me," says the honeyed, poisoned voice of Goro Akechi.

 

* * *

 

_This Velvet Room looked like someone waltzed into Leblanc and decided to paint it blue: the counters, the walls, the bar. Everything was an echo of the sleepy little cafe that Goro had spent so many nights in, the hideout that housed the notorious Phantom Thieves. Pathetic. What did this sentimental facade say about his–_

 

_That was when he'd noticed that his clothes were in shades of attendant blue and black, and a slow dread began creeping through his chest. This Velvet Room wasn’t his._

 

 _Lavenza explained everything to him on the first night he spent in the Velvet Room: about “Igor”, about the truth of his Wild Card power, about the game he was a pawn in. She told him about the gods who toyed with his life– his_ and _Akira’s– and how the Phantom Thieves rose to strike down the ruin Goro helped create._

 

_“You deserve to know why this all happened,” she looked askance, “That’s the least I can do, after what you have suffered.”_

 

_He was brought back from the dead to become an attendant. He was here because Igor took pity on him._

 

_Back when he was alive (back before he got stupid, back before he threw his lot in with the Phantom Thieves as part of his revenge gambit) he would visit the Velvet Room and be greeted by the twins suited up in their courtroom motley. Igor sat in the judge’s chair, staring down that ridiculous aquiline nose of his._

 

_Goro’s Velvet Room was a witness stand looking out over a crowd of empty faces. Usually his visits held a singular purpose– power up one Persona, or itemize another– and he paid no mind to the little girls who carried out the processes he watched unfold. Unimportant details. They might as well have been part of the scenery. Now, looking over the cafe awash in dim blue light, at his tidy uniform vest and button-up, he realized that he was, too._

 

* * *

 

“Igor isn’t here,” Akechi mocks before Akira thinks to ask.

 

Akira sits across him, and Akechi begins to explain. Igor has moved on to facilitate the next Wild Card, presumably yet another innocent teen tucked away in another part of the country. Or, in his words, "Some poor schmuck who doesn't deserve to have their life turned upside-down to fight some God's war." Akira has never thought about it that way, "But of course you haven't," Akechi adds, picking up a mug from the sink and giving it a polish. "Joker, Akira. Everyone's hero, leader of the death-defying Phantom Thieves. You'd run into traffic to save a turtle crossing the road."

 

Akira doesn't deign to reply to that statement. "What's happening with Mementos?" he asks, the urgency of the situation suddenly hitting him with full force. The shock of his Velvet Room shifting– and of realizing that his once-dead archnemesis is alive and kicking, in some form, in front of him– have died down, replaced with a bubbling sense of dread.

 

"I wouldn't worry about it too much. Nothing you can't handle, right, _Trickster_?" Akechi spits the last word like a curse, rolling it across his tongue like he's practiced.

 

A flash of red-hot rage surges through Akira. "Tell me what's happening with Mementos." He levels, voice sharper, eyes narrowing into slits. Akechi laughs, setting the mug down, leaning against the countertop on his side.

 

"Mementos was born out of human desire and malcontent. Did you think you'd actually be able to get rid of that?"

 

Akira blinks back at Akechi, the realization sinking in slowly, then all at once.

 

Akechi shrugs. "All you have to do is kill the seeds of Mementos before they can manifest. You shot a god in the head, right? This should be peanuts compared to that."

 

"I suppose." Akira says, frowning. Somehow, he trusts Akechi despite his better judgment, despite his hostile tone and harsher words. He turns to Lavenza, a small, friendlier smile creeping onto her lips, and relief washes over him. She nods.

 

"Akechi is right. Igor is facilitating the next Wild Card, but it seems like your work is not truly done as a Phantom Thief. I have returned the Meta-Nav application to your phone, and you should be able to find the locations of smaller pockets of Mementos using it. Your powers as a Persona user should also return to you. I do not foresee any distortions in your journey... It should be a fairly smooth ride."

 

Akira takes a deep breath. Lavenza's assurance (and Akechi's half-assed version of it) at least provides him with some comfort; his heart is pounding in his chest in a mixture of nerves and something else. Excitement, perhaps? It will be nice to wear Joker's easy smile and confident stride, walk a mile in those stupid heeled shoes– no. No.

 

He swallows hard, shoving the selfish sentiment down. Easy as his task is supposed to be, the fate of the world isn't fun and games. Much as he misses being Joker, he has more important things to worry about than that. "I accept," he says, though he doesn't think either Lavenza or Akechi expected any other response.

 

"Well, that was easy," Akechi says. "Any other questions?"

 

"How did you end up here?"

 

The question slips from his mouth before he has the chance to catch it. Still, Akira makes no attempt to take it back. Stranger things have happened in the Metaverse than a boy they heard die coming back to life in some liminal, corporeal form.

 

Akechi smirks, only shrugging in response.

 

"Tell your fellow thieves I say hi."

 

Akira's world clouds into a blurry mess. He wakes up in the morning with warm light filtering in through his window, safe and quiet in his bed, Morgana purring sleepily as he lies on Akira's chest.

 

* * *

 

_Goro wanted to break something. He wanted his gun in his hand, or his sword– he wanted to crush the cafe facade around him and tear the Velvet Room from its foundation and destroy anything– everything– down to its smallest pieces and then pulverize it again into a fine dust. He punched the wood counters and dug his nails into the grain, tossed aside chairs and smashed coffee pots with showers of glass, but even surrounded by shattered plates and fragmented cups and the roaring of blood in his ears, there was no peace._

 

_Lavenza said nothing, and simply began sweeping the jagged edges into a pile while Goro hung his head in his hands._

 

_The wellspring of fury, the bright core of spite and rage and vindication that had once burned in his chest seemed dim now. He wondered if his fire was snuffed out in the bowels of the boat, left to smoke fruitlessly as the water rose around him, cooled into something cold and dead as the rot of his corpse floating forever in the black of the cognitive sea._

 

_“Are you finished?” Lavenza asked, fixing him with a flat stare. He wondered if this is what a mother scolding her child looked like. Not that he would know. Bile rose up in the back of his throat like shame as he tried to think of some snarky witticism to fling back at her, a fruitless ‘Fuck You’, but he came up empty handed and settled instead for throwing another punch at the door of the refrigerator. His hand fucking hurt._

 

_“You have been given a second chance, Goro Akechi.”_

 

_High-and-mighty bullshit. He’d heard enough of it from Igor, from everyone in the Police Force, from that bastard Shido–_

 

_“Not one I wanted.”_

 

_“Gifts are not something you ask for. They are something you are given.”_

 

_“Like a shit father?" he spat. He gave the cabinets at his feet a sharp kick. "Like a power that drives people insane? Like a life that’s a fucking joke?”_

 

_Lavenza strode up to him and pricked the corner of her book into his chest, eerie golden eyes driving through his glare._

 

_“Like an opportunity for redemption. Do not squander it.”_

 

* * *

 

Akira gathers the Phantom Thieves in Leblanc the next day after class– the ones that are still in Tokyo, at least. Yusuke is attending a fancy art academy in Kyoto and Ann is abroad for a  modeling job in Vienna, but they Skype in to participate. A warm feeling takes over Akira and it has nothing to do with Sojiro's coffee.

 

The announcement that they need to destroy the seeds of Mementos is met with mixed trepidation and excitement– from Haru's "please tell me you're joking" to Ryuji's double fistpumps in the air, to Futaba's cackling about wanting to test some new technology in the field. Makoto quickly begins to plan a strategy ("We'll need to stock up on Revivadrins. No, Akira, I am not letting you drive the Mona-mobile,") and Morgana curls up on the table, chattering about how with his strength, they'll be done in no time.

 

"Wait, how did you find out about all this?" Makoto suddenly pipes up.

 

“I was summoned to the Velvet Room. Igor wasn’t there, but Lavenza was.” He hesitates— this isn’t going to be easy to say, especially considering what Akechi had done to them, all of them. He’d slain Futaba’s mother and murdered Haru’s dad, and had taken so many slow, calculated steps to ruin Akira’s life. Yet at the last moment, in the final seconds of his life, Akechi had spat in a wicked god’s eye, turned around and saved them all. Akira swallows the lump in his throat.

 

“Goro Akechi is my Velvet Room host.”

 

The chocolate biscuit Ryuji is eating drops from his mouth. "No way."

 

Silence falls across the room.  Should he have mentioned it? Maybe Akira should have kept his mouth shut– no. No more time for secrets, no time for doubt. He steels himself, studying Futaba's knotted brow, and how Haru is blinking as though she will burst out into tears. He clears his throat.

 

"Lavenza is there too. She can keep an eye on him. Even if she wasn't," Akira hesitates, "I trust him." Across the table, Akira can see Haru shifting uncomfortably in her seat. He doesn't blame her, nor does he blame Futaba in the slightest. Still, the awkwardness of the moment makes Akira want the ground to open up and swallow him alive.

 

Ann's digitized voice pops up from the computer speakers, and everyone turns to stare at the screen.

 

"Actually, same!" Her sharp features break into a warm smile, and Akira is so grateful for his friend halfway across the world that he wishes he could reach into the laptop and pull her into a hug. She continues, "He seemed pretty keen to help us back then. Nice to hear he's still alive, in a sense."

 

Yusuke nods in agreement in the window next to Ann, stroking the imaginary beard that he has been trying to grow for the last few months. Watching him try is more amusing than telling him it isn't working, so Akira hasn't said much. "Indeed. It did seem like he repented during our encounter at Shido's palace. It sounds encouraging that he has been offered a second chance."

 

Haru nods slowly, and Futaba's eyes turn up to meet his. Akira heaves a sigh of relief.

 

"We begin tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

It's difficult for them to all go into Mementos together now. Ann and Yusuke are out of commission for the moment, though Yusuke swears he'll take the first train down on Sunday morning to do his part. Futaba has school and Ryuji, Makoto and Haru have college classes that are spread throughout the day, as does Akira. The only one who is always free to enter is Morgana, and even so, he's restricted by the limitations of not being able to operate a phone in the real world. Makoto quickly organizes task forces based on availability and skillset, and a timetable schedule hangs next to Akira's red "Take Your Heart" poster in his college dorm.

 

Thankfully, extinguishing small, building-sized pockets of cognitive space and stealing the treasures within them is child's play compared to the monstrous palaces they once had to scale. Akira is all too happy (perhaps a bit too happy, a voice at the back of his head whispers) to slip back into being Joker: the quick-talking, rebellious trickster that walks tall and holds his head high, commanding his teammates with a devilish wink and a wicked grin.

 

He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have once been something more.

 

The Velvet Room has taken physical manifest outside Cafe Leblanc in the real world, and it's convenient for him to pop in to fuse Personas while visiting Futaba or after quiet shifts. Still, the irony of stumbling out of his day job as a barista into a different coffee shop where he is waited on is not lost on him, though he hasn't asked about drink prices in the Velvet Room. If they're anything like the cost of Personas, he'll have to dig into his life savings for a simple long black.

 

Interactions with Akechi alternate between simpering politeness, sarcastic remarks, and awkward silence. Any ill will Akira might have once had against his nemesis sank along with Shido's ship, but Akechi is as bitter as the coffee that Akira made while he was still a lowly barista-in-training. No amount of platitudes, eyerolls and "As you wish, sir,"s can conceal that; but he suspects that Akechi isn't bothering to hide his feelings about the matter any more.

 

Still, he won't deny that he enjoys it when Akechi calls him _sir_.

 

His strike team is preparing to enter Mementos tomorrow in order to eliminate the seeds sowing in Kanda. Akira will be entering with Haru, Morgana and Ryuji, which means that he'll need to fuse Personas with a number of -kaja spells and elements that they do not carry. Akira has spent the last hour or so in the Velvet Room sitting at the counter and poring over the Compendium, carefully deliberating his choices over discussions with Lavenza. Occasionally, Akechi chimes in by flipping to a new page in the Compendium and saying "bring this with you" or "take that along". His suggestions have been largely constructive, but Akira can't shake the feeling he'd rather be rubbing his nose into the dirt.

 

A far cry from their last interaction two years ago, when Akira had been kicking and screaming and shrieking at the sky, yelling curses at fate for not being able to keep Akechi alive; Akechi yelling at the Phantom Thieves to go, _go_ before they suffered the same fate as he did, sealing himself behind a wall with the shadows that would spell his doom.

 

He can't say he blames Akechi for resenting him now. Akira isn't quite sure how much Akechi knows about Yaldabaoth, or how they were scripted pawns of fate doomed to fight each other till the bitter end. He thinks about how Akechi– knowingly or not– had turned towards Yaldabaoth and given him the middle finger by sealing himself behind that wall, had said fuck you to the destiny that he was meant to fulfill, and a small smile creeps across his face. Akechi raises a brow.

 

"What are you smiling about?"

 

"Nothing," Akira says. He checks his list of Personas right now: perfectly balanced, just the way Akechi suggested. "I think I'm done."

 

Akechi sighs, taking the menu and turning around to place it in the back. The words "this is stupid" fall softly from his lips. Akira isn't sure whether he was supposed to hear that, but he finds himself asking:

 

"What's stupid?"

 

Akechi whips around, eyes wide for a second before settling into his usual simpering composure.

 

"Why, all of this is stupid, of course. Me, serving _you_. As your attendant. How messed up is that?"

 

Akira shrugs. "I guess." He'd never thought of it as being particularly stupid: he'd rather be trading barbed remarks and snarky comments with Akechi than not seeing him at all, but it was easy to understand why Akechi might not feel the same way.

 

"I get to be reminded how I screwed up. Not that it would have been good for the world if I hadn't, which makes it even worse." Akechi strides back up towards the counter, heaving a sigh. "Stuck here every single day, not knowing what time it is or what's going to happen, waiting for a guest that may or may not show up. Lovely."

 

If Akira hadn't known any better, he would have taken this as a hint that he should come more often. He wracks his brain for a proper response, and "Blue suits you," is the first thing that pops into Akira's mind, though he's pretty sure it's cold comfort in light of everything else and not likely to be helpful. Akira toys with the edge of his scarf, searching for the right words to say. He settles on:

 

"Cruel fate, or another chance?"

 

Akechi's gaze softens, and the tautness of his sneer falters ever so slightly. "A bit of both," he admits, the most honest their interactions have been since that fateful day on the ship. There is a lull of silence between them before Akechi speaks up once more. "Thanks, I guess."

 

"You're welcome," Akira says. The pregnant silence between them returns for a moment, neither quite sure what to say. Akira wonders whether he should speak up again or if this quiet is the better answer, but before he can catch himself a grin spreads across his face. "You owe me."

 

Akechi whirls around to face him once again. "You're an asshole." Something that resembles a chuckle falls from his lips, and it reminds Akira of how they'd once laughed together, fought together, even if it was just an illusion of what could have been. Despite Akira knowing that that had all been a lie, he can't help but feel like at least part of his fondness had been genuine. "What happened to Joker, leader of the Phantom Thieves, savior of the free world?"

 

"Not mutually exclusive with 'asshole'." Akira points out.

 

Akechi rolls his eyes, though Akira is pretty sure the edge of his lip is curling up in a smile. He snaps his fingers, and the next thing Akira knows he's back in the streets of Yongen-Jaya, close to nightfall.

 

* * *

 

“For all the time you two spend insulting each other,” Lavenza chides, setting down a cup of coffee, “You perk up whenever our guest is here."

 

She and Goro have been sipping drinks and killing time for a few hours now; when Akira isn’t around there’s not much to do to keep occupied. Goro can’t help but wonder if he’s actually still dead and is now stuck in some particularly creative hell, one where he’s forced to sit around in mind-numbing boredom ad nauseum waiting on a customer who may never come.

 

There are books, but he’s tired of trying to pick through them to find a mystery novel he hasn’t already read. There’s a TV in the corner that plays old black-and-white movies on repeat, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t have a volume dial, and the movie may not be a “talkie” in the first place. Lavenza takes pity on him and tries her best to engage in idle chitchat, but Akechi can’t help the way it reminds him of brainless talk shows and dull interviews he did when he was still alive. It certainly doesn’t help that time seems to exist outside of the Velvet Room– there is no visible day or night other than the constant cycling of the hour hand on the grandfather clock next to the door.

 

“I’m merely fulfilling my duties as a host,” Goro shrugs. He becomes very interested in the wood grain of the table.

 

“And yet you continue to forget your training as soon as you make eyes at him. Hardly a mark of deep-seated concern for hostly duties.”

 

Goro puts a hand to his chest and mimes a mock-innocent pain, “You wound me.”

 

Lavenza remains nonplussed, “This is not the time for joking.”

 

“He is just something to do other than waste away at a coffee bar,” a particularly annoying piece of dust settles on his shoulder and Goro flicks it away, “That’s all.”

 

They sit in silence for a few more minutes. Each of them tilts a mug of Goro’s slightly less disgusting attempts at coffee to their lips, both tempered with generous milk and sugar.

 

“You smile more when he’s here.”

 

It takes a lot of composure for Goro not to spit out his drink. Instead, putting to use years of acting practice, he deflects with a pleasant expression, “Don’t I smile around you, too, Lavenza?”

 

For all that she looks like a child, Lavenza has the tact of someone far beyond her years– and she knows a mask when she sees one. “Not like you do around him.”

 

“Oh? And how is it different?”

 

The best way to avoid answering a question is to pose another question, particularly one that puts your opponent on the defensive. Force them to explain themselves. It’s a simple strategy; one Goro has gotten more mileage out of than he cares to admit.

 

To her credit, Lavenza thinks a moment and chooses her words with consideration. “Normally, you only smile when you get something out of it,” Her large, yellow eyes blink back with genuine concern, “When he’s here, I think you smile despite yourself. You smile like you’re surprised you’re smiling at all.”

 

Goro shrugs again and glances back to the steam rising from the coffee still kept hot on the stove. Lavenza's eyes bore into him.

 

"I would advise you to take caution."

 

* * *

 

Akira is beginning to get used to his new Velvet Room: the smell of coffee and freshly-baked bread, the static of the black-and-white movies on the TV in the distance, the soft elevator music playing from the speakers. Lavenza, in an apron on top of her outfit, and Akechi, wearing black and blue like he'd been an attendant his entire life. Sometimes, when Akechi offers him an idea  about what moveset to select or what Persona to fuse, it’s easy to forget that he had once plotted his death and had– in some way, at least– killed Akira in cold blood with his own hands.

 

Then poison-laced snark falls from his lips, and Akira grins. Ah, that's the Akechi he knows and loves.

 

Akira has to eliminate some seeds in Akihabara tomorrow, ones that might require a stronger touch. Akira watches silently as Akechi sets the menu in front of him with the Personas available, next to the large tome that is the Compendium. He points at the name of a Persona. Principality. "That one."

 

Akechi raises an eyebrow. "Really? At your power level?" Still, the room glows with a bright blue light as Lavenza beckons Sandman and Lamia from Akira's pockets, and the pots and pans in the back room shake and bubble with lavender fluid. Before Akechi can say any more, Principality emerges from the saucepan with serenity and grace, bestowing Akira with new power.

 

Akira flips the Compendium open, and points at the name Melchizedek. "This one."

 

Akechi scoffs. "You already have three Light users. Are you really sure you know what you're doing?"

 

"Pretty certain, actually," Akira says, leaning back in his seat. A confident smirk tugs at the edge of his lips. He won't deny the sense of satisfaction when he sees Akechi's eyebrow twitch: he'd almost forgotten how fun it was to get a rise out of him.

 

"If you say so," Akechi says, flicking through the pages of the Compendium with a dramatic flourish, Melchizedek springing to life from the paper like in a pop-up picture book. The mask falls in front of Akira, landing on the countertop soft and gentle as a feather. Akechi hands him the Compendium again, and Akira points to another name. He stares Akechi right in the eye when he says it.

 

"Dominion."

 

"You're just messing with me now, aren't you?"

 

Akira barely manages to withdraw his hands in time before Akechi can slam the Compendium shut on them. It is only after Lavenza shoots him a glare from across the room that Akechi opens the Compendium again, running a nimble finger across the name Akira had spoken, and Dominion materializes in the midst of the room. Its mask falls on the countertop once more, and Akechi sneers.

 

"I don't know what you're trying to achieve here."

 

Akira is about to retort, but Akechi keeps talking.

 

"You have five Light users in your back pocket right now. You don't have anyone who specializes in Psi attacks, or Wind attacks. So, tell me," he simpers, "What are you trying to get at?"

 

Akira shrugs, says nothing, and grabs the menu by his side. The name "Metatron" glows in bright, stylized font, and he points at it with a grin. He leans in closer towards Akechi, driving the point home with a single word. "This."

 

The light that bursts from the menu is so bright it almost blinds him. Akira shields his eyes, squinting behind his glasses to stare at the form taking shape: a tall, looming angel with wide, white wings. It speaks in a low, calm voice, addressing every person in the room at once.

 

"I am Metatron. It is my pleasure to be of service."

 

The Persona glows again with a bright light, infusing itself with the skills and levels it obtained from an Arcana Burst, _Akechi's_ Arcana Burst, forged in fire and loathing and grudging respect, fueled with the slivers of what might almost have been friendship in the end. Akira shields his ears as Metatron lets out a roar, and he falls in front of Akira in the form of a mask; Akechi lowers his gaze, blinking back at Akira in surprise.

 

"What– what was that?"

 

"You helped me fuse him," Akira says.

 

"Wouldn't be much of a Velvet Room attendant if I didn't," Akechi says in return, straightening his tie, hastily regaining his old composure. No can do. Now it is Akira's turn to interrupt.

 

"Earlier, two years ago. I was only able to get Metatron after we'd... You know."

 

The implications of ‘ _you know’_ ring heavy, and the double entendre of the statement isn't entirely lost on Akira either, but he supposes it's better than bringing up Akechi's repentance and subsequent death. Akira is better at choosing his words carefully than Joker ever was, and he's not sure if he envies Joker or resents him for it.

 

Akechi takes a deep breath, at a loss for words. A flash of understanding crosses his expression, and he solemnly nods. "I see."

 

His gaze doesn't meet Akira's, but it's too late for Akira to stop talking now. "Igor– well, the fake Igor told me I wasn't ready to create him yet, but I threw some money at him and he shut up. I brought him into battle against Shido. I thought you would have wanted me to. And then, against Yaldabaoth..."

 

"How sweet," Akechi says in a tone that could almost have been sarcastic, though his voice is softer, gentler, as he averts Akira's gaze. Akira watches as Akechi runs a finger across the wood of the countertop.

 

"You saved us," Akira says. "I thought I'd carry a piece of you with me to the end."

 

Akechi's brows knot. "I dragged you pretty deep into hell before that."

 

"We were both pawns," Akira offers.

 

"I know," he says. Akechi's expression is neutral and his tone is calm, but he's toying with the edges of his gloves. "Thanks." Akira reaches out to pet Akechi on the shoulder, but Akechi brushes it away, hastily adding, "I– if you're done here, maybe you should go."

 

A lurch in Akira's chest makes him wonder if he should have said anything. Either way, Metatron is a powerful Persona and he'll need as many Light attacks as he can get against their next enemy. He picks up the mask from where it's sitting in front of him and strides out of the Velvet Room, returning to a world that Akechi will never know again.

 

* * *

 

The door barely clicks closed before Goro can turn to Lavenza and excuse himself, chest uncomfortably tight as he takes the stairs two by two up to his makeshift room and sits down on the bed. He’s not sure why he is having such a strong reaction to this information. Maybe it’s because Akira went through the trouble to carry out Goro’s wishes– even going above and beyond them–

 

Akira fused Metatron. He used Metatron against Shido, against Yaldabaoth. He did it for Akechi.

 

Akira would have fought Shido and Yaldabaoth with or without Goro’s sacrifice. He had plenty of powerful Personas at his disposal already. He could have handled everything just fine. Metatron is strong, to be sure, but if Akira already had Satanael at his disposal then nothing else could have come close. So why go through the trouble of fusing Metatron? If it was as a memorial to him then it was stupid, senseless, a waste of time and resources.

 

But it was also the kindest thing someone had ever done for Goro, and he hadn't even been alive to see it.

 

Of course, Goro supposes, Akira could be lying. He could have said that he fused Metatron in order to endear himself, to make Goro lower his defenses. Again, why would Akira go out of the way for him? Particularly after how he treated his friends, tried to kill Akira with a bullet to the head, and then revealed himself to be the true culprit behind the countless murders that were pinned on the Phantom Thieves in the public eye. They owed him nothing. _Akira_ owed him nothing.

 

Goro allows himself to collapse onto the bed, pulling loose his tie and shucking his gloves. He doesn’t like this hopeful _thing_ rearing its ugly head within his heart. There was a reason he killed off all such thoughts a long time ago.

 

Much like Akira, they just refuse to die.

 

* * *

 

The next time Akira drags himself to the Velvet Room he's come straight from a fight. He's black and blue and bruised all over, but there's something about being Joker that makes him stand up straighter, speak up louder, better able to look people in the eye. Perhaps it's the padded shoulders or the long-tailed coat or even the heeled boots, but he knows he commands an air as Joker that Akira could never even dream of achieving. Joker doesn't worry about people giving him sideways looks, eyes heavy on his back as they wonder if he’s a boy or a girl; it's the part of him that can scale palaces and steal hearts, the part of him that can charm anyone, even Shadows, into giving him what he wants with a devilish grin.

 

Though apparently, being Joker isn't enough to get him a decent Americano.

 

Akechi half-kindly, half-sarcastically offers him a cup of Velvet Room coffee, and he makes the mistake of accepting it. Akira lifts the white mug to his lips full of hope, taking in the bittersweetness swirling with the aroma of roasted beans, inhaling the scent indulgently before taking a sip–and promptly spits the liquid out of his mouth.

 

He cringes. It tastes like paper and piss.

 

"This– ugh. Akechi, a little constructive criticism?"

 

"Yes?"

 

Akira grins, trying to forget the sour aftertaste lingering in his mouth.

 

"This sucks."

 

"That's not constructive criticism."

 

Despite his composure, it isn't difficult to tell that Akechi's feathers have been ruffled: the lack of witty retort, the defensive tone. He gets up from his seat, setting the menu of Personas aside. Akira casts his long jacket over the barstool, walking around to the other side of the counter, giving Lavenza a high-five on the way.

 

His body aches from his previous battle, and he's pretty sure the gash on his side isn't something that's going to be cured with a little Diarama, but hell if he isn't going to take the chance to show Akechi up. "Have you actually made coffee before?" he asks, eyeing Akechi over his shoulder as he washes his hands.

 

"Of course. I used to make it all the time back at the police station–”

 

"Instant?"

 

"No," Akechi says a little too defensively, and Akira laughs again. He strides up towards the coffee machine and takes a quick look at the grounds used, shuddering inwardly when he sees just how Akechi had tried to make it. Oh dear, he's going to have a lot of learning to do. He leans toward Akechi, picking up the pencil and paper from the pouch on Akechi's apron, and hands them back to him.

 

"Take notes," Akira traces a finger around the filter. Wow, it is dry. Akechi has a lot to learn if he wants to make something remotely drinkable. What was he even thinking? “Wet the filter before you put the grounds into it and pour. Otherwise it ends up tasting like paper.”

 

Akechi's expression lies somewhere between irritated and begrudging, which is right where Akira wants him. Akira reaches over to the high shelf to grab a jar of Tanzania Peaberry beans, wincing slightly from the gash on his side. Ow. He turns back to Akechi, wicked grin plastered back on his face. "Second mistake? Ratio is off. Too much grounds, not enough water. Also the grounds need to be fully saturated, there are dry patches.”

 

Even if it's just making coffee, Akira can't help but delight in telling Akechi what to do. He strolls back towards the coffee machine, Akechi trailing behind him. Through the corner of his eye he sees Lavenza stifle a laugh: looks like he isn't the only person in the room who's enjoying having Akechi taken down a peg. He scoops out the previous mess of sludge from where it sits in the filter, throwing it into the trash can a few feet away. Slam dunk, amazing precision. Could have been a basketball star in another life.

 

He tosses a scoop of coffee beans into the blender, wetting the filter while the grinder gets to work. In a few minutes he has a perfectly damp filter, a fresh new set of grounds, and a very sulky Akechi watching as he slowly pours hot water into his masterpiece.

 

“Third mistake, don’t just dump the water over the top. It should be a slow, steady pour.“

 

The scent that wafts from his coffee is almost heavenly; even the best roast in Leblanc doesn't come close to this. Rich brown liquid gushes from the machine and Akira inhales the aroma, allowing a small, serene smile to grace his features. He pours out three cups of coffee, setting them on the counter with a flourish.

 

"Here."

 

Lavenza reaches over, gingerly picking up her mug with a smile on her face. Akira turns to stare at Akechi, who is studying the coffee like one would a piece of damning evidence, brow furrowed and arms folded in hesitation. Akira gestures towards the cup, and Akechi reaches over to grab it with a sigh, putting the rim to his lips and taking a sip. He sets the cup down.

 

"Alright, alright." Akira can see his eyebrow twitching in annoyance, and he has to admit, watching Akechi like this is kind of cute. “Lesson learned. Now are you going to spend more time lecturing me on brewing practices, or did you actually come here for a reason?”

 

Akira lifts his coffee mug to his lips. Perhaps he still hasn't come down from the high of battle, or perhaps this is from the joy of managing to prove Akechi wrong, but he finds the words slipping from his mouth.

 

“What if I just came to see you? What if I came to check in on a friend?“

 

He winks, and takes a nice, slow sip of the coffee. The liquid that drips down his throat is like molten gold.

 

Akechi's response is calm, measured. “What if, indeed.”

 

“Of course, that’d be assuming we’re considered friends...” Akira finds his voice trailing off. For a moment, it seems like Joker has left his body, and his quieter, more cautious self has taken over; _friends_ seems like quite the heavy assumption to make, especially for someone like Akechi who hasn't had them before. Then again, there's nothing like sacrificing your life to save a man you'd murdered less than a month ago. He sets down his mug, suddenly very interested in the ripples in his coffee.

 

"What do you think?" Akechi's expression is disturbingly neutral.

 

Akira swallows the lump in his throat, leaning back and slinging an arm across the back of his chair. Joker mode, reactivated.

 

"I think we are."

 

An awkward silence falls between them as he waits for Akechi's response. Akechi seems to regard him carefully, always guarded and yet– there, just below the curl of his lip and the pierce of his eyes– he thinks he spots something fond. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the beginnings of a real smile.

 

"Well then, I'd say that coming to visit is a perfectly reasonable thing to do."

 

Even as he tries not to let his happiness show, Akira feels like a ray of sunlight has burst through his heart. "I'll see you then," he says, getting up from his seat. "Next time, Goro?"

 

He hadn't asked to use Akechi’s first name, but Akira takes his silence as a sign that he doesn't object.

 

* * *

 

Well, fuck Akira.

 

If this is what he calls ‘Friendship,’ Goro would like a refund. Joker's finger rests on one particular entry of the Persona Compendium menu.

 

“I want this one,” he states with such innocent certainty you’d think he was picking out an apple at the grocery store, but Goro knows better; he knows because Akira had requested it last time, and the time before, and the time before that–

 

“That one.”

 

“Yes.” Akira's grin doesn’t falter.

 

Goro groans. “Again? Seriously?”

 

“Seriously.”

 

“What happened to the last one?”

 

“I let it out in Mementos.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

“No.” Akira smirks. Goro is too busy shooing the thought of a giant dick chariot running around Mementos out of his mind to hate him for it.

 

Goro levels him with a dry glare and lets out a defeated breath, shaking his head as he turns to fuse the Persona back in the kitchen. The smugness radiating from Joker makes him want to turn around and punch him right in the face– but he doesn’t. Composure. Instead he grudgingly brings back the new Mara mask and drops it onto the counter.

 

“Here is your horrible penis– monster– chariot– _thing_.”

 

Akira seems pleased with himself. Goro rubs his fingers in circles over his temples, shooing away his own personal human headache, “How many more times are you planning on fusing this before I find my cognitive double and make him kill me again?”

 

“How much more can you take?” Akira winks, and Goro seriously reconsiders the prospect of punching him. Again, composure. Instead he leans against the bar and raises an eyebrow.

 

“You really are desperate to see me, aren’t you?”

 

“What can I say? I miss your pleasant attitude and cheerful disposition.” Akira idly toys with one of his daggers, an absent habit, “And your butt.”

 

Goro can feel his cheeks turning red and he’s not sure if he’s blushing or furious– honestly, it’s hard to tell around Akira. He buries his flustered pride with a conscious swallow and even breaths.

 

“With all of those friends of yours, surely someone has a better butt than mine to ogle.”

 

Joker just laughs, “But then how would I get you to blush?”

 

It’s strange, watching the witty ease of Joker when he also has known the quiet intensity of the daytime Kurusu-kun, like seeing the larger-than-life Superman next to a mild-mannered Clark Kent. That first brush in the TV studio had piqued Goro’s interest, to be sure, but even he could never have anticipated the way in which Akira transforms in the Metaverse. It was so much more than a change of clothes and a mask. Goro wonders what Kurusu-kun would think about how Joker has been acting.

 

Akechi knows what it’s like to feel split between living out a lie and knowing your truth– but somehow neither version of the man in front of him feels wholly false. Fascinating. It’s a button too tempting not to push.

 

“So tell me,” he wheedles, “Which one of you is so eager to see me: Akira? Or Joker?”

 

The question is worth it for the flicker of hesitation in Joker’s eyes, that second of doubt pulling at the thread of his confidence and letting it unravel, even if only a little bit. He doesn’t toss out some witty repartee this time. Instead, he smiles wanly as he thinks over his answer. Goro lets himself indulge in the satisfaction of stopping the unflappable Joker in his tracks.

 

“Both of us,” he finally says, smile softened into something more genuine. Where did the swagger go? Watching it be swallowed up by a different aspect of Akira is mesmerizing. He almost feels guilty for prodding at such a sore spot. Almost.

 

“Good to know,” Goro says quietly, shifting awkwardly from side to side. What are you supposed to say to something like that? The devilish grin returns to Akira's face. He picks up the Mara mask, waggling an eyebrow.

 

"See you soon, Goro," Akira says over his shoulder, waltzing out of the Velvet Room and back into the world at-large. "Maybe I won't make you fuse Mara next time."

 

(He does.)

 

* * *

 

Akira's last class of the day had dragged on far longer than he'd thought it would that evening. He is tired, and hungry, and all he has left to eat in his dorm room is instant ramen, but he gets off at the Yongen-Jaya station to pop into the Velvet Room before going home anyway. They'd been discussing Sherlock Holmes earlier, and it reminds him of Goro, and he figures that he won't stay too long before ducking out to eat.

 

The wafting smell of curry that hits him when he enters the cafe makes his stomach growl.

 

Even Lavenza struggles to subdue a giggle when she hears the noise, Akira turns to face her, asking, "Where's Goro?" She gestures towards the kitchen, and Akira catches a glimpse of him: Goro, bent over the stove in mired concentration, stirring a pot of what is most definitely curry. "Thanks," Akira mutters quietly, heading towards the kitchen, ready to spring up on Goro and pounce before Lavenza clears her throat.

 

"Trickster, I have a warning for you."

 

Akira whips around to stare at her. "Yeah?" he asks, turning around in surprise. His chest begins to fill up with dread. Is this about Mementos? Yaldabaoth? The Velvet Room–

 

Lavenza must have sensed his panic, because she shakes her head. "Fear not. The fate of the world is stable. This concerns you, Trickster... And your new attendant."

 

Akira turns his gaze towards Goro, who is sprinkling salt into the curry with surprising dedication, then back at Lavenza. "Is everything okay?"

 

"An attendant's task is to serve their customer, not to... Fraternize. I would caution you from becoming too attached."

 

The frown Akira was wearing softens, and he heaves a sigh of relief. So that's all it was. "I think I'll be all right," he says, smiling. "Thank you, though."

 

He'll deal with the consequences of his and Goro's friendship later. Before Lavenza can say another word, Akira is off, keeping his footsteps soft as he slowly sneaks up towards Goro, ducking behind the counter when he shifts slightly to the side. Maybe he'll whisper "Boo" into his ear–

 

Akira's stomach growls again, louder. Goro spins around at the noise and his mouth curls up into a smirk. Ambush failed, the Shadows get the first strike, and there's no running away from this battle.

 

"Someone's hungry," Goro says, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. It’s grown out longer now, falling past his shoulders even in the ponytail he has it in; Akira decides that he quite likes this look on him. The shit-eating grin he's wearing is also, decidedly, a good look.

 

Akira's stomach makes another uncomfortable rumble. If he had any less self control, he would rush up to where Goro was standing, grab the pot of curry and run out of the Velvet Room yelling. He leans against the counter, trying to keep his tone level as he responds. "Care to share?"

 

"Sure I haven't poisoned this?" Goro asks, twirling the wooden spoon absent-mindedly between his fingers. Akira thinks about pointing out that he already tried to murder him once and failed, but decides it might not be the most tactful. He folds his arms.

 

"It's not like you could have known that I was coming."

 

Goro's eyebrow twitches, as much of an admission of defeat as he'll ever concede. Akira chalks this up as a victory.

 

"Take a seat, _sir_. Maybe I'll give you some scraps if there's anything left. Being your attendant is a difficult job, and I'm feeling particularly hungry."

 

Somehow Akira isn't sure that Goro can finish the entire tub of curry by himself, but he just shrugs back in return. He settles across from Lavenza in one of the booth seats on the side of the room, striking up a conversation with her about Persona fusion, glancing over to stare at Goro every couple of minutes or so to see if he's almost done.

 

After what seems like all too long, Goro emerges from the kitchen with three hot, heaping plates of curry and rice. He sets one down in front of Lavenza, then one in front of Akira, and one next to Akira for himself. He slides in next to Akira, smirking like he knows a secret, and their fingers brush against each other's for a split second. Akira isn't sure if he was supposed to notice.

 

"Dig in, _sir_."

 

The last word is dripping with acid, but Akira chooses not to acknowledge that statement. Instead he takes a generous mouthful of the curry and rice, and the salty, spicy flavor spreads across his tongue: it's no Leblanc curry, but it's pretty good. The carrots are sweet and crunchy, and the chicken pieces are tender. Akira heartily takes another bite, and then another. He's even hungrier than he'd imagined.

 

"What do you say when someone feeds you?" Goro asks.

 

"This is good," Akira says, finally looking up from his plate. He turns to face Goro, whose cheeks have gone a slight shade of red. Funny, considering the food isn't all that spicy. Goro swallows his mouthful of curry, washing it down with a swig of water.

 

"I was going for a 'thank you', but I'll take what I can get."

 

Akira laughs and kicks Goro lightly under the table. Goro snarls, giving him a sharp kick back, and Akira kicks him harder under the table in return. Goro yowls like a startled cat. "Ow!" he exclaims, motioning to attack, but Akira scoots his leg out of the way. The sound of Goro's foot making contact with the wall fills Akira with a sick sense of glee, and so does Goro's clicking his tongue in pain. Lavenza narrows her eyes at the two of them. A flash of what had once been Caroline slips into her personality.

 

"Behave yourselves!" she exclaims, slamming her hand on the table.

 

Akira chuckles again, leaning back against the lush navy seats. "Okay, okay." This almost feels like something out of a distant memory– the days Goro showed up in Leblanc for a good cup of coffee, the tired smiles he wore that didn't reach his eyes, the conversations he and Akira had into the night. Only now there are no more facades, no more pretences; no more idle talk as a means of prying information out of each other for opposing causes. It's just him, Lavenza, Goro, and a heap of delicious food. He leans in closer towards Goro and gives him a nudge. "Thank you. The curry really is good."

 

"Not like there's much else to do here than practice cooking," Goro shrugs.

 

"Why does your coffee suck, then?" Akira goads.

 

Goro's eyebrows raise so quickly they nearly fly off his face. "Is that how you treat someone who fed you?"

 

Akira shrugs, beaming back at Goro who looks like he's ready to throttle him. Lavenza heaves a heavy sigh and resumes eating, and so does Akira, polishing off the rest of the food. He gets up from his seat and reaches to take hold of Goro's plate.

 

"I can clean," he begins, but Lavenza is getting up as well. Her cold, pale hand rests on Akira's.

 

"Let me do it," she says. "Cleaning up would not be fitting of a guest."

 

She picks up their plates, and walks off to the kitchen without another word. Akira can't help but wonder for a second whether he really is just a guest in this Velvet Room anymore: not when he's gone behind the counter to make coffee, not when he's come in several times just to chat. Lavenza is probably used to the life of an attendant at this point, but he can only imagine how lonely Goro might get at times here. Sure, he can't always be super-witty, super-charming Joker, but Akira probably has a couple of fun things to say.

 

He turns to Goro. "You saved me."

 

Goro blinks back at him. "From what?"

 

"Dying of starvation."

 

Goro's mouth twitches like he's trying very hard not to laugh. "So I feed you, and I serve you. What am I now, your house-husband?"

 

"Make me a decent cup of coffee and I'll consider," Akira says, inching himself ever so slightly closer towards Goro, meeting his gaze.

 

The same smile tugs at Goro's lips again, and Akira feels a soft flutter in his chest. Goro rests his chin on his fingertips.  "Once, you came back late when I was having dinner at Leblanc. I greeted you with 'Welcome back', and you said 'Honey, I'm home.'"

 

"Yeah," Akira says, eyes widening behind his glasses. Goro's memory truly is impeccable: Akira had almost forgotten. His mind wanders back to the past: living in the Leblanc attic, going to Shujin by day and running around in Mementos in the afternoon, laughing and fighting with his friends, his comrades, his _thieves_.

 

Goro had been a part of those memories too, even if for just a while– they had known it was a farce and they had plotted against it the entire time, but that hadn't stopped Akira from getting more attached than he should have. He'd always been attracted to danger like a firefly to darkness, had an appetite for the wilder side of things that a regular school life couldn't whet. Slipping into Joker's high-heeled boots again reminded him of the heights he'd once scaled. Of course he was thankful that there was no more imminent threat to the world, but he'd missed feeling so daring– so reckless– so brave.

 

For two years he had been just Akira: the boy whose parents had sent him away when he'd been falsely accused of a crime instead of sticking up for him like they should have, the boy who'd spent three months in juvenile detention staring at a blank wall, thinking he was never going to get out.

 

Perhaps he and Goro have more in common than they'd previously imagined.

 

Goro interrupts his train of thought. "Akira Kurusu, Phantom Thief, settling into a quiet life of domesticity. Who knows? If you blink you'll find that life has transformed into a coffee shop slow-burn romantic comedy. Wouldn't be too bad, considering–"

 

"Two people have cooked for me since the start of my probation," Akira blurts out. "They were Sojiro and you."

 

Goro's eyes widen. Akira continues to speak.

 

"I don't know why my parents wanted me home after my year on probation. They kicked me out after all that happened and suddenly expected me back when I was proven innocent. They then ignored me the entire time, except to remind me I was their _daughter_ when it suited them–"

 

Home had been little more than a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in at night. People at school had avoided him like the plague despite his having been cleared of all charges, and that had suited him just fine; all he'd done that year was study like he'd never done before so he could end up at university in Tokyo. He'd taken the train to Shibuya every weekend he could, yearning and desperate for the sense of family that he'd once felt, finding it tucked away within the corners of Leblanc and among his friends' smiles.

 

"I'm sorry," Goro says, resting a hand on Akira's shoulder. Akira leans forward, burying his head in his hands– he senses Goro moving closer towards him, but he's too busy being consumed by a sudden sense of sadness and nostalgia.

 

"I missed being Joker," Akira continues. "I missed the Metaverse. I wouldn't have done most of the things I did back there in the real world. I'm still not sure that I would do half those things," he admits, turning to face Goro, smiling bitterly. "Including what happened in Sae's Palace."

 

"You mean cheating when you fought against her Sha–" Goro begins, but Akira cuts him off.

 

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about. And now everything's the same, but better," Akira says. "I get to moonlight as Joker again, only there's not much real danger. You're alive, sort of. You aren't trying to kill me. We can actually be friends."

 

Goro nods. "Yeah. Friends..." He removes his hand from where it was resting.

 

Akira squeezes out a smile. "Thanks." Years ago, it had been Goro sitting in Leblanc, spilling his heart out to Akira who worked there in his spare time; this feels like a strange reversal of roles. He isn't used to talking this much, but at least Goro, of all people, might understand his underlying sentiments.

 

"If you want to be Joker all the time so badly, why don't you make it happen?"

 

Akira blinks back in surprise. "Excuse me?"

 

"We are what we pretend to be." Goro says. A soft, genuine smile creeps onto Goro's face, and something tugs and knots inside Akira, something scary but also warm. "Wouldn't you argue that Joker and Akira are both real?"

 

"Yeah," Akira says. "It's not like I start acting differently on purpose, or anything."

 

"Exactly. Just an observation, but neither of your selves seem to be unnatural." Goro drums his fingers on the table. "Perhaps it's all just a matter of confidence?"

 

Akira stares back at him blankly. Goro chuckles.

 

"Anyway. If you miss being Joker so badly, why don't you start small?"

 

"How?" Akira asks. Goro smiles, leaning in closer to him. His lips are soft, inviting, and he smells like coffee and home-cooked meals.

 

"What would Joker do now?"

 

Akira takes a deep breath before pulling Goro in, crushing their mouths together in a rough kiss.

 

* * *

 

Goro kisses Akira like a fist fight, like a barroom brawl– quick and dirty and with a punch. He kisses to bruise. Akira pushes back and digs in his fingertips to make indents in the crisp creases of Goro’s uniform, tugging at the garter around his arm and the buttons of his vest and backing him against the wall so they can be closer and closer and closer still, close enough to hurt. His hands yank on Akira’s stupid scarf and tug off his idiot sweater and climb into his dumb frizzy hair and he hears Akira’s moan muffled into his lips at the pull. There’s no time for breathing when Goro wants to drown Akira then and there, feels a burning need to consume him with kisses, press him into the counter and make him cry out even though they both know that there’s no one else around to hear–

They crash up the stairs in some chimerical state (a writhing monster of four legs, four arms, one mouth, shedding clothes like old skins as it moves) and Akira is the one who throws Goro down onto the mattress in the corner. Panting. Wide-eyed. Disheveled. Their breath expands to fill the silence that has ballooned out between them, and shrinks to make space for hesitation.

 

This is the part that Goro hates; silence means returning to their own bodies, returning to thought, returning to all of the shit that kept them from shoving each other against a wall the first time they ever said “hello”. He can’t bear the way Akira looks down at him from behind skewed glasses, as if he’s only just now realizing what they’re doing together.

 

“Akechi–”

 

“Don’t.” Goro sets his jaw, insisting on watching the way Akira’s eyes can’t seem to stay on Goro’s face. Akechi Goro does not plead. Akira looks like he’s staring at someone who is pleading.

 

“I don’t hate you. Even after everything I–” His hands clench, a stress habit Goro had noted while compiling Akira’s mental profile during his investigation. “I don’t want to pretend I do, either.”

 

Something aching unwinds in the pit of his chest; Goro doesn’t have a name for it, but it doesn’t feel like loathing. Akira finally meets his gaze and levels a question.

 

“Do you hate me, Akechi?”

 

Goro doesn’t waver, doesn’t back down from a challenge: “I did.”

 

When he was alive, his sole purpose was to fashion himself into the weapon that would end Masayoshi Shido’s life. That loathing was his lodestone. It pulled him through hell on earth, spurred him to drive forward when all around him was nothing but death created by his own two hands. Hate bled into everything he did: every TV-ready facade, every charming interview, every case he took from the department already knowing the culprit.

 

Then the Phantom Thieves came along. They were pawns who acted with impunity, freewheeling do-gooders who leaned on each other because they could not stand on their own– and yet, in his heart of hearts he knew (he hated) that he envied their camaraderie, their unconditional acceptance of each other, their (ugh) friendship. They were there to mock him: a hyperbolic jab at everything he never had, and always wanted.

 

“What about now?”

 

Now? He is dead and alone, facing the one person who sees him for all of his ugly heart– murderer, traitor, bastard– and still holds out his hand.

 

For once, Akechi Goro could say with all honesty: “No, I don’t hate you. Not any more.”

 

They come together slowly this time. Akira sets one knee down on the mattress near Goro’s thigh, gingerly, as though he could break the moment like so much glass. He bends down as Goro leans up and this time when their lips meet it’s between breaths– a hesitant brush– like coming up for air after drowning in the dark waters of cosmic circumstance.

 

Something about smoothing his hand along Akira’s jaw feels like breaking an unspoken rule; the Gods that be only wanted him to touch Akira in violence, not in gentleness. They already got what they wanted when Goro placed the muzzle of that silenced pistol to Akira’s cognitive doppelganger and pulled the trigger– so fuck them. Fuck their game, fuck their plans, fuck their petty arguments; Goro is going to make the boy in front of him fall apart in the sweetest way possible. They will take each other apart, fraction by fraction, pleasure by pleasure, and piece each other together again. And if they get to tell the forces of the universe to shove it by doing so, then that’s just a cherry on top.

 

Akira’s hands are warm as they thread through Goro’s hair, tugging away the cord holding it to let the length fall down his back. Two years of unchecked growth flow between Akira’s long fingers, soft brown against pale white. Goro huffs and reaches out to Akira’s glasses, watching the fan of Akira’s lashes fall over his eyes as he pulls the lenses away, folds the frames, and places them aside. A little piece of Goro wants to run, wants to hide from such deceptively simple displays of trust; he can’t help but let a nervous chuckle escape, and Akira smiles like he wants to do the same.

 

“Okay?” He asks, eyes somehow larger when not penned by thick black plastic, or Joker’s mask.

 

Goro nods, smiles with the corners of his mouth. “Yeah.”

 

Goro’s the one who initiates the kiss this time, palms fitting perfectly over the edge of Akira’s jaw, thumbs smoothing over the hollows of his cheeks as they begin falling deeper into the motions. Akira’s hands trace shivering lines over Goro’s ribs. His fingers find the knobs of his shoulder, the line of his neck, kneading into the muscle with each fingertip like a grounding wire hooked from the buzz of his skin to Akira’s centering solidness pressed against him, knees to chest. Akira is everywhere– his hands, his mouth, his scent– and it’s overwhelming, there’s so much of him here, Goro can’t help but be a little intoxicated at all of this attention piling onto his senses at once. He dives deeper into the kiss, nudging at the seam of Akira’s lips, and pulls them both down flat onto the plane of the bed.

 

Akira must feel the way Goro has swelled against him by now; he smiles and pulls away to nip at his ear, rocking himself down against Goro’s thigh with increasing fervor. Akira is wearing nothing but his binder and boxers, and the telltale heat between his legs seeps through the fabric and into Goro’s skin. Goro can’t help it if his breath hitches– watching Akira chase half-lidded pleasure is so much better than any fantasy he’s ever conjured, because this is real. His hands find Akira’s waist, slide lower, find the curve of Akira’s ass and sink into it. He’s rewarded with a low whine against his neck, where Akira has been busy leaving as many marks as he can muster. That alone forces Goro to let out a moan, throwing restraint to the wind and letting it land somewhere near his vest and shirt where they lay crumpled on the floor. He seizes the chance to push Akira’s hips down against his own, rolling his growing erection up and into the perfect valley between Akira’s legs, and both of them hitch their breath at the sudden wave of pleasure that surges between their friction.

 

“We need to be wearing less right now,” Akira laughs, breathless.

 

“I’m inclined to agree.”

 

Goro feels the waistband of his boxer-briefs start to drag down, down, down. Akira’s body moves with it, drawing away from where he was caging Goro against the bed and instead pressing kisses where new skin is revealed: beneath his belly button, his hipbone, the top of his thigh. He braces himself, staring at a cliff beneath which is total exposure, and takes a deep breath to steel himself as Akira peels away the last layer and Goro is in freefall– bare before Akira, standing at attention with nothing left to hide behind. Some small voice worries at the edge of his mind (“what are you doing, this is pathetic, how shameless”) but with little more than a knowing smile and quiet hum, Akira chases away the thought. How Akira of him.

 

The barest brush of foreign fingertips along his length sends electric shivers down Goro’s spine. He can’t help the soft sigh that pushes past his dignity to make itself heard, and is about to cover his mouth and pretend like it never happened when Akira glances up and grins, and leans down to press a kiss to his blushing tip.

 

“You make such cute noises,” He coos into the vee of Goro’s hip, nosing at the dark hair there. Goro isn’t sure if he can’t bear to watch or never wants to look away when Akira licks a long, broad stripe up the side of him. He settles for throwing an arm over his eyes– but a hand pulls his forearm away and when he opens his eyes again Akira is right there, forehead leaning in to touch his.

 

“I want you to watch.” He says, “Don’t take your eyes off of me.”

 

And Goro doesn’t. Not as Akira pulls back, lifting himself to peel off his binder and shuck his underwear and reveal the entirety of his bare body. Akira is pale as a sheet, skin written with moles and freckles and pink scars that read out like a novel of experiences past: where shadows grazed through his vest and caught his ribs, where a shard of painted glass cut him after jumping through the casino window.

 

Before Akira can continue where he left off Akechi stops him with a quick kiss.

 

He chuckles, “Lie down for me. I want to try something.”

 

They rearrange themselves with Akira against the pillows, Goro sitting between his legs and running hands along the goosebumps on his thighs.

 

“You're trying to kill me again,” Akira smirks, “This time with a little death.”

 

Goro can’t help but chuckle as he rises onto his arms, breath ghosting Akira’s mound, “Do or do not. There is no try.”

 

Akira blinks back at him. “Is that from _Star Wars_?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Akira snorts, staring back at Goro incredulously, as though he isn’t sure if he wants to keel over laughing or show Goro to the door. He settles for putting his hand on Goro’s head and shoving  him down towards his clit.

 

“What are you–” Goro protests, but lets himself be shoved.

 

“Shutting you up.”

 

Not a bad suggestion. When he was alive he’d been famous on camera for his silver tongue, but this is certainly a new way to use it. The first experimental lick is light, questing, but he can feel it when Akira shudders at the touch. It’s a kind of control, Goro thinks, and what is more intoxicating than being able to make Akira (leader, thief, cagey bastard) whine and sigh with pleasure? He throws one of Akira’s thighs over his shoulder, pulls away Akira’s outer folds and licks into him again, a little drunk on the sound and shiver of the boy around him keening at the feel of it. Goro feels the hand on his head tighten and wind through his hair. If he feels himself spark with interest at the tug, well, that’s for him to know.

 

Confidence growing, Goro moves in to wind his way up to where Akira’s clit has swelled, slick and bright and red, smooth his tongue around it and lick a broad stripe from Akira’s entrance to that tip. He’s rewarded with a cry and a rock of hips– Akira can’t help but cant forward into Akechi’s mouth– that spurs him to redouble his efforts, smiling into the glossy valleys that open themselves gladly at his lips.

 

“Hey,” Akira breathes, head thrown back and nipples hard and body singing, “Fingers–”

 

Goro chuckles and the vibrations cut off whatever he was about to say next, but he thinks he understands what he wants. Akira’s so slick that his first finger slips right in; based on the soft sigh of satisfaction, Goro is on the right path. He returns to licking and sucking and working his finger in– then two fingers, once Akira is ready– and prying pleasured little noises from his throat with each thrust.

 

When Goro has three fingers inside him he starts feeling the walls pulse, feels the muscles in the thighs wrapped around his head begin to quiver. He’s got his mouth wrapped around Akira’s clit and sucking, and one hand feeling around to find the spot inside of Akira that should bring him to the peak, and Akira muttering praises that quickly grow less coherent–

 

“Yeah, ah, yes– more– ‘m close–”

 

Goro’s fingers brush over something on the front wall of Akira’s vagina and he’s moaning, trembling, and Goro doesn’t know what to do but keeps licking and rubbing and brushing that spot anyway– and Akira lets out a sharp cry as everything seems to contract at once, then flutter, and his whole body jolts and his spine arches and head throws back and he locks up in that place, suspended for a moment, until he unwinds back against the sheets and pillows and catches his breath, releasing his grip on Goro’s head.

 

Honestly, Goro wasn’t sure what to expect when he decided that he was going to eat Akira out. He finds that it’s very tight, and wet, and smells strange and musky and warm– and he has never been so turned on in his _life._ Akira pants and looks far too cocky for someone who just was begging for fingers just moments ago.

 

“Not bad.” He laughs, flushed and glowing. “Someone looks like he was enjoying that, too.”

 

Goro is about to make a witty retort when he sees Akira gesture to where his dick stands, painfully hard, in an undeniable display of interest he can’t equivocate his way out of. He’d forgotten himself while working so intensely.

 

He supposes all he can do now is own up to his body’s urges, “No point in denying it.”

 

“Nope.” Akira agrees, crawling forward to kiss the taste of himself on Goro’s lips. He seems surprised when Goro’s hand traces his jaw and pulls them back together as Akira is about to back away, and their victory lap makeout slows and deepens into something that touches a raw place inside his heart. Foreheads together, they catch their breath again.

 

“Here's a suggestion.” Akira murmurs into the inches between them. “I want you to fuck me.”

 

The bottom of Goro’s stomach drops out and he _wants_ , he wants in a way he hasn’t wanted something before, and part of him is a little terrified of how much he wants it.

 

“Yeah.” He breathes instead. “We can do that.”

 

Akira pecks a quick kiss to his open mouth and rolls off the bed, finding his discarded pants and fishing for something in the pocket. He pulls out a condom and a packet of something (probably lube) and returns to where Goro sits, still a bit bewildered and more than a bit hard.

 

He was prepared. Did Akira plan for this to happen? What if this was all a ruse, a plot by which–

 

“Before you ask,” Akira pulls Goro back to the moment, “I've always got one on me.”

 

Goro frowns, was he really being so obvious? He must have been, he’s losing his touch.

 

“You’ve done this before then?” He asks instead of dwelling on that troubling fact, watching Akira peel open the packaging.

 

Akira smiles, but this time it’s open and sheepish, “No. My first time doing anything was when we hooked up in the Casino,” he continues to undo the wrapping, “But after, I hoped it would happen. And then you–” He pauses, “Yeah. I’ve been to parties since. Made out with people, got a little handsy, but never went this far. Haven’t wanted to.”

 

Goro remembers their fevered, quick-and-dirty moment behind a corner in Sae’s Casino. The extent of it was handjobs and fingering, just enough to relieve the pressure, an exchange in the heat of desperation following a dangerous encounter. Akira didn’t know, but it had been Goro’s first kiss.

 

“All right.” Akira continues, eyes meeting Goro’s. “What are we waiting for?”

 

That’s all the answer he needs. Akira comes closer, condom in hand, and makes a point of giving Akechi languid strokes as he rolls it down his length and coats it in lube. That fire inside of him flares and he’s shaking but he wants this, wants it so much–

 

“Goro,” Akira speaks, and he brings his attention to Akira’s face where he’s smiling, close-lipped and fond. Akira's hands find Goro’s shoulders and guide him down to the bed so he’s lying amongst the pillows, and throws one leg over to straddle his stomach. Goro’s hands fall to Akira’s thighs, running them idly along the smooth skin there. Akira, ever-cheeky, grinds back against where Goro’s dick brushes the cleft of his ass. A truly embarrassing noise escapes Akechi. Akira cackles.

 

“Tease.” Goro huffs.

 

“You make it so fun, I can’t help it.” Akira shrugs, pleased with himself. He leans down, teeth sinking into the pale skin of Goro's neck, and Goro lets out another whimper. Akira pulls away, satisfied. “You ready?”

 

Goro wants to say something smart, something funny, something sharp– but all that comes out is: “Y–yeah.”

 

Akira positions himself over Goro, and begins to sink down.

 

At first, Goro watches Akira’s face twist into a wince, breathing heavily as he tries to relax into the stretch that is so different from fingers. It’s hard for Goro to focus on keeping still when he’s pressing into an overwhelming soft, warm heat, and wants nothing more than to dive deeper into the sensation slowly starting to hum through his body like electricity; but Akira still looks like he’s in pain, so he holds himself together.

 

“Are you–”

 

“I’m okay,” Akira forces a smile, teeth clenched. He’s halfway down now, and Goro can see his breaths start to even out, “Just need to get used to it. Hurts, but also feels–” He slips a little deeper, and Akira’s wince loosens into something open-mouthed and sighing. He swallows, “Really good.”

 

By the time Akira is flush against him (oh god, he’s _inside_ Akira, it feels so good his brain can’t process the thought) they are both breathing steadily. Inside of him it is warm, tight, soft. Akira’s hands lay flat on Goro’s stomach, Goro’s clutched into the curve of Akira’s thighs and ass. Akira runs a finger down and traces where they join, staring at it like he’s bewildered by what they’ve just done, and smiles up from under his shaggy bangs.

 

That’s the only warning Goro gets before Akira pulls himself back up, moaning as he feels the drag of it, and sheathes himself back down in one continuous motion. If Goro thought his noises were embarrassing before– well, he’s even more startled by his moan now.

 

“Oh,” Akira grins like he’s just discovered something wonderful, the kind of manic grin he gets when they’re about to take a treasure and escape a Palace and nothing in the world can stop him. He rises up again and plunges himself back down, again, and again, and Goro is beyond words and into murmurs of “Yes, yes–” as Akira finds his stride and begins to rock himself up and down. Goro reels into the pleasure of it, trying desperately to hang on in the wake of Akira’s motion. He starts following the pace, pulling down as Akira surrounds him again, thrusting up and making Akira cry out his name.

 

"Goro–"

 

Goro thinks his heart is going to stop when he hears it, and Akira must see the look on his face because he gets a twinkle in his eye that never means anything good and rides him down again.

 

“Goro– You’re doing so well–”

 

Fuck, fuck Akira, fuck that breathy voice, fuck that Goro loves the sound of Akira moaning his name. He thrusts harder now, the edges of his nerves fraying into jolts as he loses control of his noises, whimpering and panting, too far gone to kick himself for sounding like a fool.

 

“Goro, I’m gonna do something.” Akira slows and pants between the motions, bending down to kiss him, burying a hand into his hair and tugging him closer. Goro is about to point out that he can’t answer the question while they’re lip-locked but nods instead.

 

Akira grabs one of Goro’s hands and presses it to where his clit is throbbing, rocking into the roughness of Goro’s fingers as he rides. He keens at the touch and Goro understands, adjusting himself so that he can sit up and rub at that spot with his thumb as they find their rhythm again– and Akira grows louder, grunting with exertion as his thrusts down become more forceful, tightening around Goro and shudders wracking their bodies as the sharp slap of skin-on-skin gets drowned out by the unfettered buzz of sex overcoming their senses.

 

On one thrust Akira hits something and lets out a shout, eyes wide with surprise. Before Goro can ask what’s wrong Akira is fucking himself down even harder, trying to hit that particular angle, Goro still working at his clit and holding on for dear life because he will not last much longer (he would say that Akira will be the death of him, but that seems too on-the-nose)–

 

“Akira– I’m– I’m gonna–”

 

“You’re gonna come– I’ll make you–” Akira grins as Goro’s thrusts grow shallow, faster and with less finesse, chasing a goal line approaching fast as Akira works him harder, harder, saying his name in that way that melts his bones and drives him crazy and makes him feel like he’s been touched by his own power–

 

And with one last jolt Goro's hips stutter, his balls draw tight, and he comes with a cry– white-out and fuzzy and reeling with the aftershocks. He thrusts a few more times, body’s autopilot riding out the end of it, Akira beginning to grow frantic himself where Goro is now over-sensitive and softening inside him. He doesn’t move to pull out yet, wincing with the stimulation, but bends up to press harder on Akira’s clit and use the other hand to grab his chest and run his thumb over the pebbled nipple there. Goro’s lips find the soft pulse on his neck and suck, purpling to bruise, hint of teeth and Akira’s moans and the pressure on his clit throwing Akira over the edge and into his second orgasm of the night.

 

They pant, breath mingling, foreheads pressed together. It’s surreal. They’re both sweaty and flushed, hair in a complete state of disarray, too fucked-out to form words yet; Goro slips out of Akira, ties off the condom, and tosses it in the trash. When he returns he lies down on the bed where the covers are tossed aside, and Akira flops down next to him.

 

They lie there wordlessly in two crumpled heaps, and the smile on Akira's face is wild and wrecked and so victorious. Goro can’t bring himself to look away.

 

“I think that went well,” Akira is the first to speak, turning to face Goro where they lay on the bed. Akira begins to pick himself up off the sheets, and something wrenches inside Goro, somewhere that he didn't know he had. Before stubborn dignity can stop him Goro finds himself reaching out to grab Akira's wrist, mouthing the word:

 

"Stay."

 

And he does.

 

* * *

 

The Velvet Room knows no night, no day; time never passes on the outside no matter how long Akira remains there, caught between cognition and reality. Theoretically, he could lay there next to Goro in fucked-out bliss for weeks, months, years, relishing the ruin of two years' tension crumbled around them. He'd been waiting for this the entire time and hadn't even known it.

 

Still, there is a real world to return to, one that he fought so hard to save. Akira isn't sure how much time has passed when he tumbles out of bed, but it won’t be long until he comes back. He knows it: especially when Goro, as his Velvet Room attendant, has power to summon him here in the middle of the night. Akira chuckles. Talk about taking wet dreams to the next level, but he's waited long enough in the real world to deserve this strange, paranatural bliss. He hastily throws his turtleneck and jeans on, not bothering to bind, turning to Goro one last time.

 

"I'll come back." Akira grins, cheeky, "You wouldn't want my life to get boring, would you?"

 

“Quoting Star Wars at me?” Goro raises an eyebrow from where he reclines, still naked against the sheets and pillows. "Pot, meet kettle," he says, but his smile betrays him.

 

Akira pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene one last time as though he would commit it to memory before he has to leave: the way Goro’s hair is mussed and tousled just so, the bruises now purpling his neck that fit Akira’s mouth perfectly, how those sharp eyes soften when paired with that smile so delicately balanced between smug and fond. He suspends the moment in his mind– indulging his desire to live inside of it just a little longer– and then turns away before he can regret the decision to leave.

 

The cafe is quiet as ever. It looks precisely the same as when Akira left it, save for the absence of dirty plates in the sink. Lavenza sits in one of the booths against the wall, book open and tea steeping beside her, and glances up when he enters.

 

“Morning. Er–” Akira hesitates, remembering where (and therefore not ‘when’) he is. He gives up on thinking of an appropriate greeting. “Hi.”

 

“Hello.” At first Lavenza waves to him airily, smiling and half focused on her book–

 

Then she pauses, looks up for longer than a glance, and blanches.

 

“Oh no.”

 

Her golden eyes fixate on him, running over his body in increasingly frantic patterns; are his hickeys showing? Is his hair more of a mess than usual? What is she–

 

“No, no...” Lavenza mutters, standing from her seat and approaching him. She takes his hand in hers and stares at it: “This is not good.”

 

The sudden shift in tone sends Akira for a loop. He’s beginning to feel his pulse pick up, stomach tightening in sympathetic concern.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

She stills, eyes on the ground, and takes a breath before looking up to meet his gaze.

 

“I warned you.” Lavenza says, expression caught between disappointment and frustration. "I told you not to get too attached.”

 

“I don’t understand.” Akira bends over a little so they are at the same height, “What do you mean?”

 

She huffs, “You didn’t listen. You stayed here too long.”

 

Lavenza tugs on his wrist and moves Akira’s hand so that it’s right in front of his face, so that he stares at his palm under the blue cafe light. He’s looking, and at first he doesn’t see what’s wrong: his hand looks fine, why is she staring at him like that–

 

Until he realizes that his hand is covering Lavenza’s face, yet he can still see her yellow glare.

 

“What the–” He breathes, heart rate speeding as he holds his palm up to a lamp and can pick out patterns in the lampshade through transparent fingers, “Lavenza, what’s happening to me?”

 

“You are not an attendant, you are a guest of the Velvet Room.” She explains, rueful, “You come here for our services, and we provide. But you cannot stay here. You cannot live your life within this place, you are not meant to. By doing so you shun the outside world, loosen your hold on reality...” She frowns, “I knew you had been spending quite a bit of time with us, and I was concerned, but I had no idea the extent to which you have begun to anchor yourself here.”

 

The first thing that comes to Akira’s mind is Goro, and he feels his heart jump into his throat.

 

“If you continue down this path, Trickster, you will disappear.”

 

* * *

 

 _“Who do you want to be? You just wanted to play in your own backyard, but you don’t know where your own yard is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet. You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here._  

 _You’re still right here.”_  

  
-Richard Siken, _“You Are Jeff”_

**Author's Note:**

> A cliffhanger ending? YES IT IS! But fret not, dear reader, for there is another chapter on its way. and shit. goes. down. 
> 
> In the mean time, thanks for reading, and please feel free to yell with us about AkeShu or this AU or whatever in the comments! We love you!


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